Shostakovitch and Pizza
by Hobsonphile
Summary: A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step... Scott and Steven friendship, Guber Angst, post "Chapter 24"


Shostakovitch and Pizza   
by Steph   
  
Rating: PG-13, parental death   
Codes: Scott and Steven, Guber Angst   
  
Summary: A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step... Scott and Steven friendship, post "Chapter 24"   
  
Introduction and Disclaimers:   
  
Okay, those of you who've read "Revelations Over Dinner" probably knew somewhere in your subconscious that I was going to tackle this idea. :) This story, taking place after the events in "Chapter 24," is my version of what might've happened the night Scott and Steven shared a pizza. There are some angst-y moments in here (because Scott tends to inspire that in me), including a parental death- thus the PG-13 warning. But there are some lighter moments in here too, I swear. :)   
  
Of course, to avoid lawsuitage, I'm require to say that all recognizable characters belong to DEK, and that I'm just borrowing them for my own completely unprofitable pleasure.   
  
And MEGA thanks to my brother, Matt, who beta-ed this story and helped me out with all the basketball terminology, because, alas, I know about as much as Scott does about the game. ;)   
  
Oh, and FEED ME PLEASE! I love constructive feedback about as much as I love Scott! :)   
  
*****   
  
Shostakovitch and Pizza   
by Steph   
  
Steven lightly tapped his brake as the light at the intersection changed from green to yellow, and leaned back in his seat with a sigh, his stomach growling at the smell of the pizza- stuffed crust, mushrooms, sausage, and extra cheese- that sat in the passenger seat. He had tuned the radio to the Celtics game- tonight they were playing Michael Jordan and the Washington Wizards- but in truth, his mind was elsewhere. In all these years, had he ever been inside Scott Guber's apartment? He couldn't remember.   
  
As he waited for the light to change, Steven found his thoughts drifting to his first day as a Social Studies teacher at Winslow High. Back then, the secretary who had greeted him in the main office was Linda Meyers, a heavyset but impeccably dressed middle-aged woman who greeted Steven with a mild mannered smile...   
  
"Are you Steven Harper?"   
  
Steven put down his attaché case, adjusted his tie, and offered one of his large hands in greeting. "Yes, that's me," he said as he shook the secretary's hand with a smile of his own. "I was supposed to meet with Principal Rush this morning?"   
  
"Yes, well, he's... occupied at the moment. If you have a seat over there," Mrs. Meyers gestured to a row of chairs sitting just outside the principal's office, "I'm sure he'll be ready to see you in a few minutes."   
  
"Thank you, ma'am." Steven glanced down at his watch, then planted himself in one of the seats. Opening his attaché case on his lap, he pulled out a stack of papers and started going over his lesson plan one more time- he wanted this day to go off with as few hitches as possible.   
  
From within Rush's office, two voices could be heard arguing- about what, Steven couldn't quite make out. One voice he recognized as the principal's- the other, which carried a faintly autocratic tone, was unfamiliar. A few minutes passed, the discussion showing no real sign of ending. Steven looked at the time again, then stood to get a drink of water.   
  
The moment he was on his feet, the door flew open and a diminutive fury emerged. Distracted by barely controlled anger, the man plowed into Steven's massive form. The force of the impact caused him to stumble slightly, but he quickly steadied himself and locked his gaze with Steven's, apology and rage battling for dominance on his features. "I'm sorry, sir." he clipped tersely. "Excuse me."   
  
Steven watched with curiosity for a moment as the man disappeared into the crowded hallway, then followed a somewhat weary Rush into his office. "Who was that?"   
  
The principal sighed. "That was Scott Guber...probably my best English teacher. His passion for teaching is undeniable. That's why I hired him. But he can be...difficult to work with..."   
  
A horn honking insistently behind him suddenly interrupted Steven's reverie. The light ahead was glowing green- slightly chagrined, he put his foot on the accelerator and his car lurched. He shot one hand out to stop the pizza from sliding off the seat and onto the floor, then rested his hand back onto the steering wheel. Moments later, he made a right turn into Scott's apartment complex and shut off the ignition.   
  
As he climbed the stairs to the third floor, Steven continued to muse over how Scott and he had come to this point. Steven had a heart formed for friendship and an unmatched talent for diplomacy- he liked to think he could get along with practically everybody, but those first few encounters with Scott cast Steven's celebrated skill into doubt. Kind gestures were met with instant distrust- Scott had a stare that could freeze the toes off Satan himself. But at some point- Steven couldn't remember exactly how it happened- there had been a tiny breakthrough, a small breech in Scott's armor. And Scott began coming to Steven with his frustrations, trusting a small piece of his heart to Steven's care.   
  
Except for a few dinners together, however, their relationship had been limited to the school grounds. Both notorious workaholics, they spent many late nights together at Winslow. And sometimes, as other faculty members filtered out of the building and the sunny afternoon shifted to dusk, a confidence would be shared and there would be this flash of closeness between them, a momentary acknowledgement of their dependence on each other to stay sane. But then, after the work was finished and the admissions made, professionalism would click back into place, and Scott and Steven would go their separate ways, like ships in the night.   
  
Then the other night, Scott threw Steven an unexpected curve.   
  
It wasn't the first time Scott had brought up the notion of them spending time together outside of school. Towards the end of last year, he had invited Steven on a cruise. Steven had declined, of course. The last time he had been on a boat, he had spent most of the time emptying the contents of his stomach over the side. But even more important than the motion sickness was his uncertainty that he would be able to come up with enough conversation topics to fill two weeks alone with Scott. Scott was right- there didn't seem to be much the two of them had in common.   
  
As Steven approached Scott's door, he could hear two voices singing inside. Feeling a little uncomfortable, he raised his fist to knock...   
  
On the other side of the door, Scott was straightening a few things in his living room and wondering for the thirty-fifth time whether this whole idea was a mistake. There was a basketball game tonight according to the newspaper- maybe he should call and cancel...   
  
A knock on the door made Scott jump. Feeling about as relaxed as he imagined a student sitting in his office awaiting sentence might, he took a deep breath to calm himself and went to answer the door.   
  
On the other side stood Steven, looking about as apprehensive as Scott felt and holding a pizza box in his hand. "Steven. Come in."   
  
"Hey, Scott." Steven stepped over the threshold. "Is there any place in particular you want me to put this?"   
  
"Um... I suppose the coffee table would be fine."   
  
"Scott?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"We're in your home- you can take off your tie."   
  
Scott looked down at his chest. "Oh... right," he laughed nervously as he fumbled to remove the garment. "Sometimes I forget I have it on..."   
  
Referring to the music in the background, Steven asked with genuine interest, "What are you playing?"   
  
"Shostakovitch, From Jewish Folk Poetry. I can turn it off if you like-"   
  
"No." Steven stopped Scott with his hand. "Leave it on. I want to hear it."   
  
Unsure of how to proceed, Scott simply observed as Steven set the pizza box down and sat down with a sigh on the couch, opening the box and grabbing his first slice. A flurry of possible conversation topics went through Scott's mind, all of them quickly rejected.   
  
"What are they singing about?"   
  
"Hm?"   
  
Steven swallowed and repeated his question, gesturing towards the stereo that took up one corner of the room. "What are they singing about?"   
  
"Oh... well... they are two lovers remembering the happy moments of their courtship before a long separation." Closing his eyes, he recited, "Remember, remember, on the boulevard,/You were so smart and I was quite the fool./Oy, oy, Rivkenyu,/Give me your little lips..." He trailed off and allowed his translation to linger in the air, suddenly wistful.   
  
Opening his eyes, he found Steven staring at him, speechless. And it was then that Scott realized with a familiar fear that he had laid himself open once more without being aware of it. Scrambling to recover, he stammered, "Um... why don't I... why don't I get some plates and forks for the pizza?" Forcing a smile, he turned and ducked into his kitchen.   
  
Steven was perplexed by Scott's change in demeanor, but years of friendship had taught him to be patient- to allow Scott to decide how much he wanted to reveal, and when- and he let him go. Listening to Scott's movements in the kitchen, he took the opportunity to look around the room he was sitting in, to see what he could learn about this man he had grown to care deeply about. The apartment was tastefully furnished and immaculately kept- Steven expected as much based on Scott's precise, meticulous work ethic at school. What really struck him was just how many books and CD's his friend owned- the three bookcases that took up one wall were completely filled. There were personal photographs too, but fewer than average- an outward sign, Steven assumed with some sadness, of Scott's isolation.   
  
Next to Steven on a small end table was a black and white photograph of a blond woman with a small child at her side. Both were dressed in formal attire, the little boy wearing a super-serious expression. Were they Scott and his mother?   
  
Scott re-entered the room carrying two plates, the silverware rattling on top. As he set the dishes down next to the pizza, Steven inquired, "Is that you and your mother in that picture?"   
  
Scott froze and looked up at Steven's expectant expression. A moment passed before he answered in a laconic affirmative.   
  
"Where were you going dressed like that?"   
  
Scott could hear his heart beating in his ears as a rush of old emotion coursed through him. Discussing his mother was not the direction he wanted this conversation to go. "Would you like something to drink?" he finally managed after a long beat.   
  
"Sure."   
  
Scott expelled a burst of air and retreated once again to the kitchen. As he opened the refrigerator to survey his beverage selection, a long buried memory flooded into his consciousness...   
  
Fourteen-year-old Scott Guber sat in the dumpster where he had just been deposited and listened to the retreating laughter of his tormentors. When he believed they were distant enough, he lifted himself from the bin and started to gather his schoolbooks and papers, which had been scattered around the alley as he fought in vain to defend himself. Bruised, and with blood dripping from a cut above his right eye, he staggered towards home, biting his lip hard in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. In his head, his father's voice rang loud and clear, "Only cowards cry, Scott. Are you a coward?"   
  
No! Anger roared to life inside Scott and he pressed his hands against his eyes, his inner voice chanting: I am not a coward, I won't cry. I am not a coward, I won't cry.   
  
Scott continued his mantra as he unlocked the front door and entered the Guber family home. Setting his tattered books on the kitchen table, he turned on the water in the sink, grabbed a rag, and tried to clean the cut on his face. The wound stung on contact, and Scott paused, taking a sharp breath inward. He then squeezed his eyes shut, steeled himself, and pushed forward.   
  
These painful ministrations completed, Scott noticed for the first time how eerily silent the house was. Usually, his mother was there to greet him in the afternoons with a hug and questions about his day, but today, there was nothing...   
  
In the present, Scott blinked rapidly. From a distance, he could hear himself asking, "Would you like to try the Chateau Lynch-Moussas?"   
  
From the other room, Steven responded, "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not much of a wine drinker, but that sounds fine to me."   
  
Scott grabbed the bottle and then opened a cupboard above his head, reaching for two wineglasses...   
  
In the past, Scott called out into the quiet home, "Mom? Are you home?"   
  
There was no answer. Walking out of the kitchen, Scott slowly ascended the staircase to the second floor. When he hit the creaky third stair, the sound seemed to echo endlessly in the stillness. "Mom? It's Scott- are you here?"   
  
Now in the second floor hallway, Scott could see that the master bedroom door was partially ajar. He pushed open the door- and let out a sigh of relief upon seeing his mother sleeping on the queen sized bed.   
  
Creeping to the side of the bed, he reached out and gently shook her. "Mom?" There was no response. Scott shook her a little bit harder. "Mom?" Again there was no answer.   
  
A cold sliver of panic began to worm its way into Scott's heart. His heart pounding, he struggled to roll his mother over- she was a dead weight in his arms. It was when he got her onto her back that he finally noticed the bottle from the local pharmacy in her hand. Scott pried it out of her grasp- and realized with horror that it was completely empty.   
  
Flying down the stairs, the pill bottle in hand, Scott telephoned the doctor. His fear overtaking him, it took several tries for him to coherently explain to Dr. Armstrong what was going on. As soon as the doctor figured it out and told him he was on the way, Scott ran back upstairs. At his mother's side again, Scott checked to see if she was still breathing- she was, but her breath was shallow and irregular.   
  
The exertion of running up and down the stairs, as well as the turmoil of his emotions, left Scott gasping for air. Trembling, he took one of his mother's hands and squeezed with all his might, "Oh, God, please don't let her die. Please..."   
  
And then the most improbable thing occurred- for just a moment, Anna Guber came to and saw her terrified son. Her hand twitched, then lifted to touch his face weakly. "Scott..."   
  
"Mom? Oh, Mom, please don't leave me..."   
  
"...I'm sorry..." she whispered. Then her hand dropped back to the bedspread...   
  
...And the one woman in the world who truly understood Scott- who was his emotional compass- was gone...   
  
The present-day Scott closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow. An eternity seemed to pass before he felt even remotely calm.   
  
Steven, who had grown concerned at Scott's extended absence, chose that moment to walk into the kitchen. "Scott, is everything okay?"   
  
Startled, Scott jerked, sending one of the wineglasses to the floor, where it shattered. "Yes... I'm sorry... let me just tidy this up..." Avoiding Steven's eyes, he opened the pantry to retrieve the dustpan and a small broom.   
  
Steven took hold of his wrist. "Let me help you with that."   
  
Steven crouched down and held the dustpan as Scott swept up the shards of glass, watching his friend closely. Scott still refused to look Steven in the eye, focusing intensely on the clean up. A long time passed before Steven broke the tense silence. "Scott, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."   
  
Different parts of Scott warred with each other. His heart wanted desperately to tell Steven about his mother, but his mind feared the repercussions. Then the voice of Dr. Colbert interrupted the interior argument:   
  
"You have to be willing to let people in, Scott. Try, just a little bit..."   
  
"We were going to the symphony," Scott said suddenly, looking up. "Just my mother and me- I was five at the time... they were playing Shostakovitch... I don't remember which piece..."   
  
"Oh," Steven said, blinking.   
  
"It was truly wonderful..." Scott smiled sadly, remembering the perfume that Anna was wearing, and the gentle way that she carried him out of the performance as he drifted towards sleep, the excitement of the day exhausting him. Then, the smile disappearing, he added, "...nine years later... she was dead..."   
  
"I'm so sorry, Scott. I didn't know. I wish I hadn't asked."   
  
They lapsed into silence once again. The glass cleaned up, both stood and walked over to the garbage can. The dead air was absolutely excruciating- Scott searched for something, anything, to say. But the only thing that came to mind sounded utterly inane- taking a deep breath, he blurted, "So, how about those Celtics?"   
  
Steven flashed him a look of amused surprise. Oh dear, it sounded even more foolish now that it was out there. Scrambling to retrieve his dignity, Scott continued, "I mean... I understand they are playing a game tonight. If you like, we can turn it on..."   
  
Steven shrugged. "Okay."   
  
Scott released the breath he was holding and walked past his friend into the living room, shutting off the stereo and turning on the television. He then sat down in an armchair and reached over to put a small slice of pizza onto a plate. As Steven sat back down on the couch, Scott picked at his pizza tentatively with his knife and fork, then primly cut himself a small bite. Steven looked on, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. It wasn't until after he chewed and swallowed that Scott noticed Steven's expression.   
  
"What?" Scott was suddenly self-conscious.   
  
"Nothing, nothing... it's just that... most of the people I know just eat it with their hands..." The grin was full-blown now.   
  
"Oh..." Scott put down his silverware.   
  
"No, Scott, it's okay. I was just teasing you- you can eat your pizza any way you like."   
  
At that moment, the Celtics scored- Steven cheered, and Scott almost dropped his plate. "Antwoine Walker is really playing a good game tonight. He's really been dominating under the basket...playing a two dimensional game." Then, after a pause: "Playing in the Fleet Center doesn't have quite the same magic as playing in the Boston Garden, though. My father and I actually went to the fifth game of the '76 finals- that was a hell of a game." Steven turned and looked at Scott. "That was about a month before he died."   
  
Blue eyes locked with brown as the import of that statement sunk in. There it was- there was one thing they had in common.   
  
It was Scott who broke eye contact first. Watching the game, he said, his voice laden with trepidation, "Look at the way Pierce and Walker are working together to use Walker's size. Not only are they scoring from outside, but Walker has established his presence at the top of the key!"   
  
Steven, who had taken a bite of his pizza, choked, then burst into uproarious laughter.   
  
Scott winced. "Oh, I said something wrong, didn't I? I-I'm sorry..." He set down his plate and stood, completely flustered, searching for some way to salvage the moment.   
  
Seeing Scott's embarrassment, Steven immediately tried to damp down his mirth- it was very difficult. "Scott!" he chuckled. "Sit down, it's okay." Scott sank into the chair and covered his face with his hands. When Steven finally felt like he had his laughter under control, he tried to reassure his friend. "Scott?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Look at me." Scott's hands dropped and he fixed Steven with an almost pitiful gaze. "Scott, you don't have to learn how basketball is played or eat pizza with your hands to be my friend. I like you the way you are."   
  
Scott felt like he'd just been socked in the gut. Swallowing around the rising lump in his throat, he murmured, "Thank you... but I do want to learn about basketball. It obviously means a great deal to you."   
  
"Okay, Scott, then I will teach you. And probably the first thing that I should teach you is that the top of the key refers to the area on the perimeter near the middle of the court, not the area Walker uses. That's the paint."   
  
"Okay."   
  
"Oh, and Scott, one other thing?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"If I'm going to teach you about basketball, you're going to have to teach me about Shostakovitch."   
  
Scott smiled and nodded. "Of course."   
  
And thus the old saying goes: a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.   
  
The End. 


End file.
